Sixteen Months in Four German Prisons | Page 3

He scanned it hurriedly, jumped up from his seat,
and apologising for his abruptness, explained that he had been suddenly
called home. He expressed the hope that he would shortly see me in
Russia, where I was promised a fine time, but that he would instruct me
the precise date when to start. Meanwhile I was urged to complete my
purchases of the paraphernalia which we had decided to be imperative
for our purpose, and he handed me sufficient funds to settle all the
accounts in connection therewith. That night the Prince bade me
farewell and hurried off to catch the boat train. My next communication
from him was the brief instruction urging me to start on August 1.[1]

[Footnote 1: I have never heard since from the Prince. A day or two
after the outbreak of war, upon joining the Russian forces, he, with an
observer, ascended in an aeroplane--he was an enthusiastic and skilled
aviator--to conduct a reconnaissance over the German lines. He was
never seen nor heard of again. Searching enquiries have been made
without result, and now it is presumed that he was lost or
killed.--H.C.M.]
Shortly after his departure there were ominous political rumblings, but
I, in common with the great majority, concluded that the storm would
blow over as it had done many times before. Moreover, I was so
pre-occupied with my coming task as to pay scanty attention to the
political barometer. I completed the purchase of the apparatuses,
packed them securely, and arranged for their dispatch to meet me at the
train. Then I remained at home to await developments. I was ready to
start at a moment's notice, having secured my passport, on which I was
described, for want of a better term, as a "Tutor of Photography," and it
was duly viséd by the Russian Embassy.
Although the political sky grew more and more ominous I paid but
little attention to the black clouds. The receipt of instructions to start at
once galvanised me into activity to the exclusion of all other thoughts. I
booked my passage right through to destination--Warsaw--and upon
making enquiries on July 31st was assured that I should get through all
right.
I left Brighton by the 5.10 train on Saturday afternoon, August 1st.
There was one incident at the station which, although it appeared to be
trivial, proved subsequently of far reaching significance. In addition to
many cameras of different types and sizes stowed in my baggage I
carried three small instruments in my pockets, one being particularly
small. I had always regarded this instrument with a strange affection
because, though exceedingly small and slipping into a tiny space, it was
capable of excellent work. As the train was moving from the station I
took two parting snapshots of my wife and family waving me farewell.
It was an insignificant incident over which I merely smiled at the time,
but five days later I had every cause to bless those parting snaps. One

often hears about life hanging by the proverbial thread, but not many
lives have hung upon two snapshot photographs of all that is dearest to
one, and a few inches of photographic film. Yet it was so in my case.
But for those two tiny parting pictures and the unexposed fraction of
film I should have been propped against the wall of a German prison to
serve as a target for Prussian rifles!
Upon reaching Victoria I found the evening boat-train being awaited by
a large crowd of enthusiastic and war-fever stricken Germans anxious
to get back to their homeland. The fiat had gone forth that all Germans
of military age were to return at once and they had rolled up en masse,
many accompanied by their wives, while there was a fair sprinkling of
Russian ladies also bent upon hurrying home. An hour before the train
was due the platform was packed with a dense chattering, gesticulating,
singing, and dancing crowd. Many pictures have been painted of the
British exodus from Berlin upon the eve of war but few, if any, have
ever been drawn of the wild stampede from Britain to Berlin which it
was my lot to experience.
As the train backed into the station there was a wild rush for seats. The
excited Teutons grabbed at handles--in fact at anything protruding from
the carriages--in a desperate endeavour to be first on the footboard.
Many were carried struggling and kicking along the platform. Women
were bowled over pell-mell and their shrieks and cries mingled with the
hoarse, exuberant howls of the war-fever stricken maniacs already
tasting the smell of powder and blood.
More by luck than judgment I obtained admission to a saloon carriage
to find myself the only Englishman among a hysterical crowd of forty
Germans. They danced, whistled, sang